°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Running as fast as I can 🍃

HARRY
( ooo apparently this happens too )

"I was running as fast as I can
I'm finally breathing you in
And I'm drowning on ya, drowning on ya
Please
We were over before we began
And I don't think you understand
I've found you now, so don't you say it's

Too late, too late, too late
Too late, too late"

Leaving the design studio, I found myself weighed down by two completely contradictory emotions.

On one hand, I was quietly thrilled—Zayn was finally starting to warm up to me. It had taken weeks, but the shift was subtle and real. When we first started working together, I'd noticed how tense he seemed around me. At first, I worried I'd somehow offended him, or worse, made him uncomfortable just by existing. But over time, it became clear that it wasn't personal in that way—he was just... nervous. Awkward. Maybe a bit starstruck, though I hate using that word. And honestly, I got it. I've seen it before. Some people need a bit of time to realize I'm just a guy who sings for a living and wears stupidly loud shirts.

Still, I couldn't help myself. The part of me that enjoys banter, that loves making the people I work with laugh, couldn't resist poking at his shell every now and again. Never mean-spirited, just enough to try and loosen him up. Over the past month and a half, I'd made it a bit of a mission—without telling anyone, of course. Whenever our paths crossed at Columbia, I'd go out of my way to say hello, ask a question, toss out a compliment if he shared something he'd designed. It became a quiet sort of game.

And today... it paid off.

I'd come into the building early to sit in on a session with the producers upstairs, and on my way out I passed the design studio. I knew Zayn would be the first one in. He always was—dedicated, dependable, the kind of person who came in before anyone else to get his ducks in a row. So, on a whim, I hung back.

We ended up chatting—really chatting—for the first time. Not about layouts or fonts or merch drop deadlines, but about his morning, his boyfriend, pancakes. He was animated, relaxed, glowing in that way people do when they're talking about someone they love. His eyes lit up. He smiled with ease.

And here's where the conflicting emotions kicked in.

Because as happy as I was to see Zayn finally comfortable around me, something twisted in my stomach when he said the word boyfriend.

It wasn't like I didn't know people had lives outside of work—obviously. And I certainly wasn't under any delusion that Zayn owed me personal information, let alone some kind of availability. Still, the mention of Joe—his name, his job, the way Zayn's voice softened when he talked about him—left an odd ache in my chest.

I told myself it was nothing. That I was just being dramatic. That the mild sting I felt wasn't jealousy—it was probably just that low-grade disappointment that bubbles up when you find out someone you admire is already spoken for. Maybe it was simply because I'd imagined us becoming friends, and now that he was comfortable opening up, I was realizing there were already parts of his life I'd never really belong to.

But as I walked down the corridor, heading back toward the elevator, that gnawing feeling refused to let up.

I tried to make sense of it.

Sure, Zayn was good-looking—striking, even. There was a quiet elegance to him, a sharp artistic eye and a shy wit that I'd started to catch glimpses of over the past few weeks. And yes, he was immensely talented. I'd seen it in the early drafts of the cover art, in the textures he layered into the visuals, in the way he talked about translating sound into image like it was a kind of alchemy.

But I barely knew him. I knew that. We didn't hang out outside the office. We didn't text. Most of our conversations had been in passing or in work meetings. So what right did I have to feel anything at all?

Still, the truth settled in quietly, unwelcome and undeniable:

If I didn't know any better, I'd say I was jealous.

It didn't make sense. I told myself it shouldn't make sense. But there it was anyway, gnawing softly at the edge of my thoughts. Jealousy—not of Zayn's relationship, necessarily, but of the intimacy he clearly shared with someone else. Of the ease with which he talked about that life. Of the fact that some other man, one I'd never met, got to be the person Zayn looked at the way he had when he talked about blueberry pancakes and cuddling and lazy mornings.

I shoved my hands into my pockets as I stepped into the lift, the doors sliding shut with a quiet ding.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just admiration, twisted up with fatigue and the odd loneliness that always followed me in the quiet hours between work and whatever came after. Or maybe—just maybe—it was something else entirely. Something I wasn't ready to name.

Either way, I'd have to figure it out soon. Because the more time I spent with Zayn, the harder it was becoming to ignore this strange pull toward him.

And if I wasn't careful, I had a feeling it was going to get a lot more complicated.